


Suit and tie under cover (he's gonna save my life like superman)

by theaa



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cunnilingus, F/M, because Jon treats his ladies right, wedding! au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:38:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8410549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaa/pseuds/theaa
Summary: ‘I think we should get shots,’ she declares. Jon’s eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘Sansa Stark, are you drunk already?’‘No, but I feel it’s the only way I’m going to survive the rest of this evening. So you can either join me, or stand and watch. Your choice.’His skin flushes, but then he stands up, pushing his phone into his pocket and scraping his chair back. ‘Shots it is.’





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Hide Away by Daya.

The wedding is, as every wedding she’s been to before, and she’s starting to suspect every wedding she will ever attend, a very dull affair. For anyone that isn’t the bride, that is. Sansa hovers near the bar, holding the stem of her champagne flute so tightly she’s worried it’ll snap in two. Arya sits with Gendry, occasionally taking time out from rolling her eyes at whatever sweet nothings her boyfriend is telling her, to shoot concerned looks in Sansa’s direction.

Sansa ignores her and rolls her champagne glass between her fingers again, trying to lessen the tension in her fingers, glancing around the venue so as to avoid Arya’s gaze. Everything is very light and bright and bedecked in fresh floral green and pinks, as befits any wedding of Margery Tyrell. Hotel Highgarden has really outdone itself. The hotel grounds have been transformed to accommodate the gazebo type structure they’re gathered in, the lawn has been manicured within an inch of its life, and soft white streamers hang from the neighbouring trees and the tent’s ceiling, fluttering slightly in the wind. Thick vines have been wrapped around the tent’s structural poles, climbing to the ceiling, blooming with pink roses in places. Just like a fairy-tale. It is, Sansa thinks bitterly, the very sort of wedding she’s dreamed of since she was a girl.

Trust Margaery to steal her wedding in every way possible.

Across the tent Margaery tips back her head and laughs. Somehow the delicate garland of roses she’s wearing stays put. Joffrey’s smile next to her is weak in comparison and Sansa suspects he didn’t understand the joke Loras obviously just regaled them with. Joff never did have a sense of humour.

She drains the last drop of champagne in her glass and turns to the bar again. If there is one good thing about this wedding it’s that by making the venue her father’s hotel Margaery has at least secured an open bar for all the guests. Sansa intends to make great use of it.

She’s waiting to be served when there’s a touch on her elbow and Sansa turns to see Robb, russet curls noticeably unkempt. She’d been trying to find him earlier to sit with but she’d been unable to spot him in the crowd of people moving from the ceremony to the reception. But now he’s here, his new girlfriend Jeyne hanging slightly back.

Jeyne’s necklace is crooked, her hair escaping its neat chignon bun. Sansa looks between them, torn between being amused and exasperated. She wonders if they even made it all the way through the ceremony before slipping out together.

Robb seems to follow her narrowed eyes and he flushes, runs a hand through his hair, and changes the subject. ‘You look miserable, Sans.’

‘Thank you, Robb. So kind of you to say so.’

He looks uncomfortable. ‘No, I mean – sorry, that was awful of me – I just, I thought you were over him? Over what happened.’

She is. Sort of. She wouldn’t trade places with Margaery if someone offered her the moon on a string, but there is still the sensation of a boot to the chest in watching her ex-boyfriend marry her ex-best friend. There’s only so much personal history she can see scrubbed out and written over right in front of her without it stinging.

‘I am. It’s just strange to see it, is all.’

Robb looks sympathetic. ‘You know you didn’t have to come.’

‘Of course I did,’ she snaps. ‘It would have looked rude if I didn’t.’

‘People would have understood…’

‘No, it would have created a scandal, Robb,’ she sighs, ‘and you know it. We can’t afford to piss the Baratheons off. Dad’s in the middle of that broker with Robert remember, and it would have made things awkward.’

Robb shakes his head. He hates the politics that come with running a business, she knows. He spends most of his days in the Stark offices with gritted teeth because of it.

He reaches back to curl his fingers around Jeyne’s waist, tugging her forward. Robb’s new girlfriend is a petite woman, usually shy and timid, and she gives Sansa a small slightly embarrassed smile.

‘Jeyne and I are going to dance. Do you want to join us?’

‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’

Robb’s patience with her has apparently run out. He nods curtly. ‘Well, if you decide you want company you might think about joining Jon - he needs some too. He’s at the back of the tent if you want to find him.’

Jeyne gives her another wan smile, and then Robb’s dragging her away towards where the band are playing triumphantly at the head of the tent.

Sansa flags down the bartender again and orders another drink, double strength. Arya has stopped checking on her, her parents are embedded in conversation with the Baratheons, and her little brothers are sitting at the table the teenagers seem to have domineered, along with Lynanna Mormont and Meera Reed, who she knows Rickon and Bran have crushes on, respectively. That at least makes her smile, and she knows going over there would only cramp their style.

She takes a sip of her drink. When she was mentally preparing herself for the wedding the situation was this: just when she was really tired of the whole thing she imagined one of the wedding guests, some tall dark handsome stranger, would offer to buy her a drink and dance with her in front of Joffrey. It was a petty, silly imagining, but it always made her feel slightly better about the whole thing.

There are no tall dark handsome strangers, however. She recognises almost everyone, either from Robert’s work, or from Margaery’s, a few shared university friends she’s avoiding, and then the Tyrells and the Baratheons. The dreams of wiping the grin off both Joff and Marg’s face, getting a dance, and less romantically, perhaps getting a leg over someone new in the evening, are dying fast.

She sighs, picks up her drink, and forces her way through the throng at the bar to the back of the tent where she can see Jon sat alone, hunched over with his phone in his hand.

Tall, Jon is not. When they’re standing close together they’re pretty much the same size and with the height of her heels she likely towers over him today. But dark and handsome she can give him, she supposes. As Robb’s best friend and honorary Stark member himself, Sansa knows Jon isn’t too hard to look at, his eyes and hair a deep smudgy charcoal. He’d probably like to think of himself as mysterious, too. He’s always been a hard person to pin down. As she picks her way over to him she notices he’s groomed his beard into a neater and sharper style than he usually sports, and she approves. His hunched shoulders and the way he’s isolated himself are ruining any other appeal he might hold, however.

She drops into the seat at the empty table opposite him, feeling the chair legs sink into the grass below a little. Jon jerks up to look at her, schools his look of surprise.

‘Hey – Sansa.’

‘I heard misery loves company. So here I am.’

Jon’s mouth twists into the tiniest wry smile. ’Ah. Not having fun?’

‘You could say that.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He knows it isn’t going to help, but he says it anyway and still sounds like he means it. She appreciates that, at least.

They sit in silence for a few minutes, while Jon taps anxiously at his phone and Sansa sighs and swirls the liquid around her glass. She and Jon had never been the best conversationalists, and certainly not together. Sansa was just always too aware at how very little that had in common - apart from Robb, of course.

Down the way Margaery is dancing with Joff - she thinks it’s their first dance. Most of the other guests are milling around watching, pairing off, but through a gap in the crowd she can see Margaery and Joff’s silhouette, entwined, Joff’s arm wrapped around the small of Margaery’s back, her face tucked into the crook of his neck. It makes her lip curl.

Sansa stabs at the olive in her cocktail, hard enough that Jon starts at the sudden movement, glancing up from his phone. His expression is alarmed, and Sansa finds herself opening her mouth, anger bubbling to the surface. ‘I keep looking at her in her dress, and I keep on remembering her in a white sheet instead, scrambling out of our bed.’

Perhaps she’s starting to slide the wrong end of tipsy, because she’d have never admitted that otherwise, but telling Jon is almost just like venting to a brick wall, she reasons. Jon Snow; unflappable, dependable, brooding. Jon Snow is not likely to run off with her gossip or laugh at her behind her back. The thought helps.

Jon’s face is creased into a frown. ‘Wait, you caught them together?’

‘Yes.’

‘Shit.’ He makes a noise, something in between an intake of breath and a whistle. ‘Shit. I didn’t know. I thought that he was just seeing her, or –‘

She shakes her head. ‘Nope.’ The only person she told was Robb. She’s grateful Robb didn’t spill to his best friend about it, but now here she is, telling him anyway.

‘What an asshole. Really, what a complete and utter _wanker_. ’

She’s expecting another apology so Jon’s reply actually makes her laugh, maybe the first time since she heard the bridal march begin to play that morning. ‘He is, isn’t he?’

Jon nods. ‘Always has been, but now he’s verified one hundred percent tosser.’

She rolls her eyes at his language, but there’s still a smile pulling at her mouth. Jon meets it, sort of, and silence falls between them again.

Jon picks up his beer and takes a swig. The phone on the table next to him buzzes and he glances over, only to look away in apparent disgust. She ignores it the first time, but then it buzzes again, and again. Jon looks aggravated.

‘Someone’s popular,’ she comments, like they’re both back in high school, or something.

‘It’s Ygritte.’

‘Oh, wow.’ Sansa knows about Ygritte. Not very much, but enough to know she messed up Jon big time when they split. Robb had spent weeks trying to rescue Jon, trying get him back to some semblance of a normal functioning person. She really threw him for the loop, apparently.

Jon scans his latest message and then throws down his phone, his lip curling, his forehead creasing. Whatever Ygritte is texting, it’s obviously pissing him off royally. Sansa wonders what she’s saying - were they together again, or-?

‘How long has she been texting you for?’ she asks instead.

‘Pretty much all day.’

‘Is that why you’ve holed yourself up here away from everyone?’

Jon shakes his head. ‘Partly. But also, no, not really. Weddings are…’ he searches for the right words.

‘Not your thing?’ she finishes for him.

Jon nods at her. ‘Right. Definitely not my thing. Definitely not at the moment.’

Sansa remembers with a jolt that Robb thought that Jon and Ygritte were going to get engaged at one point. Perhaps Jon had wanted to and Ygritte hadn’t – she’d never really found out the reason for their split, too wrapped up in her own relationship drama with Joff.

Better to break off an engagement before it’s begun, she thinks. Things get messy otherwise. Like the big diamond ring Sansa had torn off her finger and thrown at Joffrey’s feet, screaming, near tears. The way he’d calmly bent down to pick it up and dropped in his trouser pocket before declaring her an ungrateful, spoilt brat in return.

‘I’ve come to the conclusion that weddings are over-rated anyway,’ she says.

‘I couldn’t agree with you more.’

It’s not strange exactly, talking to Jon like this, but he’s Robb’s friend first and foremost, and other times just seems to drift in and out of her life. He’s at some family arrangements, then not others. He’ll be at the pub one week and then a no-show the next. Frustratingly elusive.

She doesn’t think she’s spent as much time exclusively talking to him alone like this since years ago when Robb was late home from college and Sansa was the only one home to let Jon in and entertain him until Robb appeared. Or perhaps when they’d been at the bar a couple of months ago, trying to order rounds together, but Ygritte had been with them then and she’d called Jon away before they really got to talking.

Sansa thinks they deserve another chance at talking. Especially if it’s by a bar again. And if the alcohol is free. They both need alcohol, she decides.

‘I think we should get shots,’ she declares.

Jon’s eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘Sansa Stark, are you drunk already?’

‘No, but I feel it’s the only way I’m going to survive the rest of this evening. So you can either join me, or stand and watch. Your choice.’

His skin flushes, but then he stands up, pushing his phone into his pocket and scraping his chair back.

‘Shots it is.’

Xxx

The taste of tequila is burning at her throat. After the first couple she’d given up with the lime wedge chaser and salt beforehand, and is now drinking them straight and grimacing afterwards.

She drops her empty shot glass into the little tower she’s building up beside her and Jon slams his down too, dragging the back of his hand against his mouth and wincing.

‘Okay, enough now.’

Sansa makes a face. The shots haven’t hit her system yet, and she doesn’t want to stop. She knows her limits and a couple more will tip her nicely over into the ‘pleasantly buzzed’ category.

‘Enough tequila,’ Jon clarifies, seeing the expression she’s pulling. ‘Please, no more tequila.’

‘Fine.’

The itch for another drink is still strong, however. One more and then she’ll be good to go. Good to face the music. Or dance to the music. Whatever. The point is, she still needs that drink.

The bar is heaving now, so she has to push to get to the front a little, clearing a space for her against the counter, which she leans over, flipping her braid over her shoulder to hang down and swing slightly.

One of the waiters shuffles down to the end where Sansa’s standing and his eyes catch the movement of her hair and travel upwards to her face. She gives him her best smile, flutters her eyelashes. It works.

She elbows her way back to Jon, and hands him one of the rum and cokes in her hand.

‘I saw that.’

‘Saw what?’ she asks innocently.

‘You. Flirting. To get the drinks.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she says, lowering her mouth to the straw. The sweet sugary taste explodes on her tongue and she relishes it, smiling.

He snorts. ‘I’m not complaining, trust me. It was just funny. How you just turned that on.’

Sansa shrugs. She knows she’s not unattractive, and she’s used to having to use her looks. It was part of the reason she was sure Joff must love her. What more could he want than a pretty face, and someone to support him?

Apparently it had been a different pretty face, someone to support him, and the possibility of a lucrative property deal with his new fiance’s father, the voices in her head remind her.

Or that’s her theory, anyway. Baratheon Estates have been sniffing round Hotel Highgarden for years trying to convince Mace Tyrell to sell. Now perhaps with newfound familial closeness they’ll get their way. Sansa snorts. Oh God, everyone here is so _awful_.

‘You can say that again.’

She doesn’t realise she talked out loud and looks up at Jon, startled, but Jon just takes a deep sip of his drink and says nothing more.

The shots from earlier are kicking in now, but instead of making her blissed out they’re making everything feel that bit much _more_ , instead. The wedding guests are too loud. The drink in her hand is so cold. Jon’s face is so close. She is still so very angry with everything.

‘I don’t even think he loves her,’ she spits.

‘I didn’t think Joffrey has ever been capable of actual love,’ he replies mildly. Jon probably thinks she’s going to go on a weepy rant about her ex. She’s not. She needs him to know that.

‘He’s just such a little _snake_.’

‘Uh-huh. Yeah, he is.’

‘I mean sure, I guess they’re attracted to each other, but if you ask me, this is not a marriage, it’s a business deal.’

‘A business deal?’

‘So Marg’s father will sell Highgarden to the Baratheons. Then they can turn it into private flats, or whatever. Make money.’

Jon stops mid-slurp. ‘Holy shit, for real?’

She shrugs. In truth it’s just a theory, and although she knows the Baratheons badly want the hotel, she’s not sure she can blame Marg and Joff’s entire marriage on it without sounding like a crazy jealous ex. Which is why she hasn’t told anyone before.

But Jon isn’t looking at her like she’s some psycho ex-girlfriend; he’s not even looking at her. He’s staring at the back of Joff’s head, burning holes into the boy’s cranium.

‘He always flirted with her. This probably just gave him an excuse to go further,’ she explains.

(She just hadn’t expected Margaery to take him up on it.)

Sansa finishes her rum and coke with a final suck on the straw and pokes at the ice left with the end of it, swirling it around the glass. She feels better having told someone. Less like her feelings of bitter resentment and disgust are going to eat her from the inside out. There’s a bit of relief there.

Jon turns back to her, drains his own glass. ‘Let’s find Robb,’ he suggests. Sansa allows herself to be pulled away from the bar, his hand circled gently around her wrist.

Xxx

‘No, _surely_ not?’

Sansa lets Jon pass on her Highgarden theory, sitting next to him and opposite Robb and Jeyne, both worn out from dancing. Her head is spinning, just a little, and it’s nice. Good. She can tune out most of the conversation. Now that she’s told someone, she just doesn’t care. She doesn’t care any more, about Joffrey or Marg or anyone. But Robb seems to be very interested.

‘Yes! I definitely wouldn’t put it past them, would you?’ Jon exclaims. Her theory has excited him - it’s the most animated she’s seen him. It’s interesting, not seeing him morose and melancholy.

‘That little fucker,’ Robb drawls. ‘Honest to God, why Dad still insists on keeping contracts with Baratheon Estates I have no idea. The company’s full of crooks.’

‘Not just the company. The whole bloody family.’

Sitting next to her brother, Jeyne looks ready to fall asleep already, her head resting on Robb’s shoulder. It’s a cute image, surprisingly domestic. There’s that ache again, in the pit of he stomach, the ache she felt earlier watching Margaery walk down the aisle, and now looking at Robb’s new girlfriend and the picture they make together. She tries to push it out of her mind. Jon and Robb continue to trade insults about Joff, but she’s heard them all before now, and her mind wanders off. Jeyne looks so peaceful, perhaps she should rest her eyes too. She nearly mirrors Jeyne’s position and leans into Jon’s shoulder, but stops herself just in time and grasps a hold of her senses. Jon’s hair is starting to escape the little bun he’s pulled it back into, curling around the nape of his neck. Jeyne is playing with the cuff of Robb’s shirt, twirling the cufflink around and around as they talk. Sansa wants to play with Jon’s hair instead, pull on the baby hair ringlets and watch them bounce back. She just wants to touch something. She feels like she’s floating away, just a little. Like she doesn’t even need to be here.

‘Sans, are you drunk?’ This makes her jerk towards Robb again, whose face is half amused, half worried.

‘Little bit,’ she admits.

He looks over at Jon. ‘Don’t let her have any more, please?’ – and her temper flares.

‘And who appointed Jon my keeper? Besides, he’s just as drunk as I am.’

Jon looks sheepish, and she knows she’s right. His eyes are dark, his cheeks rosy from the drink, and he’s surprisingly talkative, which she’s blaming on the alcohol.

‘Well then neither of you have any more, please. I think Jeyne and I are going to turn in.’

‘You’re getting old, mate,’ Jon teases. Robb laughs.

‘Gotta happen some time. You kids have fun. Not too much, mind.’

Jeyne rouses and bids them good night sweetly, curling into Robb as they leave the gazebo towards the hotel, where all the guests have been given a room.

Jon angles his chair towards her. ‘How you doing?’

Sansa had promised herself a dance, so a dance is what she’s going to get.

‘Come dance with me.’

‘I’m an awful dancer,’ he says flatly.

Of course he is. She’s seen him at family stuff before. He dances like a Dad at a barbecue. It’s sort of pitiful. ‘I don’t mind.’

‘I’ll step all over your toes, or I’ll just embarrass you.’

Sansa rolls her eyes. ‘Jon, I’m at the wedding of my ex and my best friend. Everybody here probably thinks I’m pathetic. It can’t get much worse.’

Jon’s panicked face falls away, his lips twitch and he sighs.

‘Okay. Lead the way.’

Xxx

 

Joffrey is staring at her. Or more accurately, at her and Jon, together on the make-shift dance floor. Lancel Lannister is twittering away in Joffrey’s ear, oblivious to the thunderous look on Joff’s face that is clearly nothing to do with their conversation. Joffrey tugs at the beer he’s holding moodily. Sansa watches as he sends Lancel to get another one and she giggles.

‘I said I wasn’t a very good dancer, there’s no need to laugh.’

Sansa refocuses on Jon’s pouting face in front of her and shakes her head.

‘No, not you. Joff.’ She tries to angle her head discreetly in his direction. Jon twists round, all subtlety lost, and Sansa hits him on the shoulder.

‘Make it obvious then!’

He turns back, his face bemused. ‘Is he jealous or something?’

Sansa snorts. ‘No, I think he just really hates me. Why would he be jealous of you? He _knows_ you.’

‘I dunno, he looks jealous to me. He’s glaring right at us.’

‘Then he’s an idiot.’

Jon affects a wounded tone. ‘How easily you dismiss me…’

Up by the front of the dance floor the jazz band switch to a slower, more slick groove. The song is schmaltzy at best and Sansa would usually sit it out, but a wicked grin over takes her.

‘Let’s say we test your theory…’

Jon’s eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘What?’

Sansa takes a step closer to him, and like she suspected, she is taller than him in her heels, so she bends down and pulls them off, throwing them underneath a nearby table.

‘Sansa, what are you doing?’

‘Please just go with it – I want to see if it makes a difference.’

‘Makes a difference to what? Sansa I –‘

He doesn’t get to finish because Sansa moves to press her body up against his, arms looping loosely around his shoulders, ducks her head, and presses a kiss to Jon’s still half-open mouth.

There’s a moment of slackness where Sansa waits for Jon’s brain to catch up with what’s happening, but she knows the moment he catches on to her plan when he starts to kiss back, tentative at first. Sansa can tell he’s trying to be respectful, but chaste kisses won’t make a scene. When Sansa runs her tongue along the seam of his lips he parts them in surprise, and she can taste the saccharine remnants of the rum and coke he drank earlier as her tongue finds its place alongside his. The feeling of being kissed, of kissing someone else, is more potent than any drink she’s downed the entire day and after a second she forgets what she started the kiss for in the first place. Jon’s beard rubs slightly against her chin, rough and coarse, but it’s so different to Joffrey’s clean-shaven skin that she welcomes it, angles herself to increase the contact. She’d forgotten what kissing anyone besides Joffrey felt like, and with every sweep of his tongue Jon is refreshing her memory. She feels his teeth catch on her bottom lip and pull slightly and she can’t withhold the small sigh that breaks free because of it.

Jon pulls away, looking embarrassed. ‘Gods, I’m sorry, I got carried away…’

Sansa’s still quite dazed, but she manages to shake her head. ‘No, no, it’s fine. I’m sorry I sprung that on you…’

She blinks and behind Jon’s head, Joffrey’s face swims into focus. Red, flushed angry skin, white knuckles holding his beer, a death glare in their direction.

‘Oh my god, he _is_ jealous. Oh, this is _amazing_ ,’ she laughs.

‘Glad to be of service,’ Jon quips, deadpan as usual.

Joffrey slams down his drink on a near by table, brushes Lancel away with a sweep of his arm and storms off, Sansa assumes in search of Margaery.

‘He’s gone.’

‘Good riddance, bad rubbish, etc,’ Jon grunts.

They’re still standing very close to each other, and Sansa’s arms are still slung round Jon’s neck. She starts to loosen them and step back when she sees Jon’s eyes follow her face, resting very explicitly on her lips.

There’s no reason to kiss him now, but there’s no reason not to, either. None of her family are watching, Robb is in bed. Absolutely no one to stop her.

‘Jon?’

‘Hmmm?’

He’s not paying attention, his answer half vacant. He wants her, and it sends a tingling sensation to the tips of Sansa’s fingers, right down her spine. It’s been so long since she felt wanted like that. But Gods, Jon? Not who she expected. A thousand miles from who she envisioned ending the night with.

‘Are you alright?’ she asks, and Jon seems to shake himself out of his obsession with her lips, dragging his gaze upwards to meet her eyes.

‘Yes, sorry. Trying to keep up my awful dancing. I’m glad Joffrey isn’t bothering you any more.’

Sansa hums in response. If Robb were here she wouldn’t dare, but he’s not, he left, and he left his best friend behind. Her fingers thread into the loosened hair at the nape of Jon’s neck and tug slightly, making Jon glance up at her, his lips parted.

They’re swaying now to an old smooth jazz song, Jon faltering every few steps. Sansa pitches forward, leans her chin on Jon’s shoulder and hears his breathing quicken from that movement alone.

‘Do you, maybe, wanna get out of here?’ she asks, her voice right by his ear. She feels him shudder.

‘To yours?’ Jon asks, his voice catching slightly.

‘To a hotel room. I don’t quite care whose it is.’

He swallows. ‘ _Sansa_.’ He draws a shaking breath. ‘Robb — we can’t. I couldn’t—‘

She notes with pleasure that he doesn’t add Ygritte’s name to Robb’s. Perhaps they’re not back together. At this point, she wouldn't much care if they were, which is bad of her, she knows. But they’re obviously not on good terms, anyway.

‘Robb’s not here, Jon. Come on, we’ll just slip out.’

Her whispers hit the shell of his ear, tendrils of black hair stirring against her words.

Jon’s hands, previously light against her waist, slip lower to her hips and dig in slightly. ‘Alright.’

xxx

The key card to her room jams once before she manages to shoulder the door open. Jon pushes her against the wall as soon as she tumbles across the threshold, his knee slipping in between her thighs, parting the slit in her dress. Hot wet kisses press against her neck, catching the skin behind her ear, her pulse point, her collarbone, Jon’s raspy breathing loud in her ear. Sansa’s fingers push under his suit jacket and push it off his shoulders and Jon gets the message, pulling away to shuck it off. It falls to the floor by their feet. Sansa spares a thought for the dry cleaning costs, but is abruptly cut short by Jon’s mouth against hers again. She scrabbles with the tiny white buttons of his dress shirt, yanking them apart, seeking skin with her fingernails. Jon’s body is radiating heat, burning at every point it meets hers. It’s like she broke through a dam or something by inviting him over. Shy, broody, elusive Jon Snow can not keep his hands off her, and it’s the strangest, most pleasant sensation.

Jon’s hand comes up to cradle her head, weaving into her hair, bracing against the jolt she makes when Jon’s other hand finds her thigh and slips upwards to play with the lace edges of her underwear. ‘Fuck, _Jon_.’

He just hums into the damp skin of her neck, drags his teeth along her jawline. The hand underneath her dress brushes over thin material, and the hand in her hair catches her head as she slams it backwards at the first press of Jon’s fingers to her clit above her underwear. She whimpers and Jon’s hand stalls.

‘ _Shit_. Sorry, my god, did I hurt you?’

‘No,’ she gasps, ‘fuck, don’t stop, you idiot.’

Jon blinks at her. ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he mutters. ‘Should we move somewhere else?’

Sansa supposes they should. ‘Yeah, okay, whatever.’

Jon extracts himself from her and stumbles backwards, his eyes still on hers. The zip of her dress sticks slightly the first time she pulls at it, but a harder yank has the thing halfway down and she struggles out of the navy blue material and kicks it off her.  
Jon scrambles with the remaining buttons on his shirt and pulls the thing off too, adding it to Sansa’s dress on the floor. His suit trousers follow, the belt clacking against the thick metal rings on his fingers. Sansa feels disappointed that she’s not the one to dispose him of his belt to be honest, so she stops him before he can push down his boxers too, sliding a finger into his waistband and tugging him closer.

He shudders out a gasp when her hand dips lower to grip him gently, soft fingers sliding up his shaft, smoothing over the tip to spread the moisture beading there, jacking him slowly. Her lips stretch into a grin. Here she is, with Jon Snow’s dick in her hand, hard and leaking, and it should be ridiculous, awkward as hell, but it’s not at all. What it _is_ , is _hot_.

‘Sansa, gods,’ Jon pants, ‘Please…’ Suddenly, her hand is being dragged out from his pants. ‘Wait.’

She hardly gets to ask what he’s doing before Jon is gently pushing against her, propelling her backwards until the backs of her knees hit the border of the bed. Hotel Highgarden is luxury accommodation, and out of what she can only presume is a spasm of guilt, Sansa’s been given one of the most extravagant rooms. The bed is high off the ground, sleek and modern, the type of four poster bed that doesn’t have a canopy, only the plinths jutting up towards the ceiling. Sansa expects to lie back against the mattress, but instead Jon guides her towards the left post until she’s leaning against it. He sinks to his knees in front of her.

‘Oh God,’ she whispers, when she realises what Jon intends to do. He looks up at her, his face serious, but his eyes are shining wickedly. A soft touch to the inside of her thigh makes her spread her legs, giving herself a wider stance, enough room for Jon to crawl under her. The first touch of his tongue has Sansa shooting an arm above her head, gripping the bedpost tightly, while the other hand anchors in his hair. Jon isn't deterred, licking up into her, his tongue brushing soft at first against her clit, but when he’s found a rhythm and the exact spot, he devours her, sliding his tongue relentlessly against her. Occasionally he’ll lower his mouth and lift two fingers to slip inside her, fuck her that way, suck and nibble on her folds. It makes her wriggle above him, loving the respite, the steady rhythm of his fingers inside her, but soon she craves his mouth higher again. She tugs on his hair and he gets the message, pausing to grin up at her before taking her swollen clit between his teeth and suckling at the sensitive nub. Sansa writhes, her breath broken and panting. The only way she’s still standing up is the hand wrapped around the bed post, and Jon’s shoulders, propping up her legs.

‘Fuck, Jon. _Fuck_. Yes, _please_.’

‘Tell me what you want, Sansa,’ he says, leaning away from her for a brief second, and Sansa nearly screams with frustration.

‘ _Fuck_ ,’ is the only response she can give him, but it doesn’t seem to please him - and God she did not have him down as a dirty talker. Somehow that makes it ridiculously hotter.

‘Tell me what you want,’ he repeats, underlining his words with a bold swipe of his tongue up her folds and around her clit. She bucks away from the post, arm stretching above her, chasing his tongue.

‘I want to - to come,’ she manages, and Jon smiles.

His lips find her clit again, and Sansa’s legs quake. She can feel her wetness on her thighs, dripping, and when Jon presses the flat of his tongue against her and drags it upwards, the trembling in her thighs seems to break like a floodgate. Her knees go weak as her orgasm hits her, but Jon is already there on his feet, holding her to him, taking her weight. She twitches in his arms and then droops against him, utterly finished.

‘Are you ok?’

Sansa blinks, wills the room to stop spinning.

‘You’re like, really good at that.’

Jon chuckles, a surprisingly sweet sound, and it reverberates through both their bodies, pressed together. ‘Thanks,’ he laughs, ‘I needed that ego-boost.’

Sansa pushes herself off him and just shakes her head, although she’s smiling too. Catching his hand in hers she pulls herself up onto the bed and tugs until he follows, his body tumbling down on top of hers. Jon kisses her again, and Sansa can taste herself there, tart and tangy. She can feel the length of his dick, rubbing against her hip bone. Somehow, he still has his boxers on.

‘You feel like you could use a little help,’ she says, sliding out from Jon until she’s kneeling by his thighs, peeling back his underwear. He scrambles out of it, brushing it off the bed and Sansa watches him for a second with approval. She moves to take him into her hand again, but Jon stops her yet again.

‘Won’t last - been too long,’ he says, his voice cracked with the effort of stopping her, but she shrugs. Honesty is good. ‘Are you still wet?’ he asks.

Sansa reaches down to touch a hand to herself, and her finger slides in easily. ‘I think so,’ she answers cheekily. Jon watches her with darkened eyes.

‘Enough,’ he says roughly.

Sansa smirks, but moves to straddle him anyway. In truth she doesn’t want to tease either him or herself any longer, so she lifts herself up and slides on to him easily, lowering until he’s buried inside her. Jon’s eyes squeeze close and Sansa’s own flutter shut. Oh god, but he feels wonderful. Perfect. She pitches forwards to start rolling her hips and after a few snaps she feels the head of him brush the exact right spot inside of her and she stutters out a gasp, her walls clenching around him, which makes Jon swear softly under her.

Sansa doesn’t know what comes over her, but as she rolls her hips against his, staring down at his face, tightened with pleasure, she wants to see his eyes.

‘Tell me how I feel, Jon. Do I feel good?’

Like she hoped, his eyes pop open, wide and unfocussed. He chokes on his words. ‘So good. So tight. Your perfect cunt.’

The word sounds different on his lips than Joffrey’s, almost loving, and her hips jerk as he says it. Jon rolls them over and buries himself to the hilt, lowering his lips to her neck and groaning softly into her skin.

His fingers reach between their bodies to rub at her clit. Jon’s thrusts are long and hard, each one pushing her more and more slightly up the bed. She gasps when Jon moves from nibbling on her neck to pant against her ear.

‘Come for me now, Sansa.’

For the second time, she feels all her muscles release, shuddering at his command. Jon follows her, and they slump together afterwards against the silk bedsheets they didn’t even bother to get under.

xxx

She wakes up to a shaft of sunlight across her face and opens her eyes blearily, wincing against the early morning intrusion. Only the net blinds cover the large window opposite the side of the bed, and they’re next to useless at keeping the sun out. She considers burying her face in her pillow and willing the daylight to go away, when movement to her right makes her pause. She rolls over to see a shock of unruly black hair, and a warm, naked body attached to it.

Oh _no_. Her heart thumps uncomfortably fast in her chest, the seeds of panic blooming in her chest. If there was a line, a line that family friends simply did not cross, she and the man currently asleep next to her definitely leapt across the divide last night; probably somewhere between him eating her out against the bedpost and the third orgasm he treated her to later. There’s no way back from that.

The dark bedsheets are twisted at her ankles and she fights to free herself, but Jon - _oh God, Jon_ \- must sense the movement because he rolls over towards her and groggily opens his eyes.

‘Do you mind, I’m trying to sleep here.’

Sansa’s legs immediately stop kicking at the sheets at the soft, calm, slightly sleep-slurred tone of his voice. Apparently he isn’t panicking like she is.

‘Morning?’ It comes out like a question, all wrong and squeaky and titled upwards at the end, and Jon smiles sleepily at her.

‘Is it? I thought we’d slept in longer than that.’

She neglects to answer, frozen in place under the sheets. Jon’s drowsy smiles slips slowly off his face.

‘Sansa? You alright?’

‘Uhm….’

Immediately Jon’s facial expression settles into his ubiquitous expression - a slightly droopy mouth, concerned crinkled eyes, furrowed brows. ‘Sansa, what’s the matter?’

‘We, uh, we—‘

‘Had sex?’ he replies bluntly.

She nods.

‘And?’ Jon prompts her, his eyes searching her face.

‘And….’ She trails off, completely unsure of what she wants to say. The earlier panic is beginning to recede and now she isn’t even sure what caused it. They’re both adults, consenting adults, and the longer she stays silent, the more (slightly hazy) memories of the night before dance in the back of her mind. And it was _great_ , that’s for sure. More than great. _Incredible_. They had incredible sex. Why should she be worried about that?

‘And…. nothing.’

Jon’s face twists into confusion. ‘Ok, you’re giving me whiplash. I thought I’d done something wrong there.’

Jon’s curly hair is falling across his face, soft and curling, a complete contrast from the sharp slicked back style it was in last night. She remembers digging her hands into it, winding the curls through her fingers, messing it up thoroughly, and she blushes.

‘Sorry, ignore me.’

He raises an eyebrow at her. ‘Not that easy, I’m afraid.’

Raking his eyes up her body pointedly, he smirks at her. Sansa smiles at this new boldness. There’s something exciting about shy and reserved Jon’s new and roughish attitude. She’s always idly wondered how fiery Ygritte was first attracted to Jon, but obviously there was a aside to him that she just hadn’t been exposed to before.

She squirms under his gaze, lets the sheets fall away from her chest, and is rewarded by the way Jon’s eyes widen.

‘So last night then, huh?’

Jon’s eyes snap back up to her face and he frowns slightly. ‘You don’t regret it?’

‘No,’ she says firmly, letting the word settle between them. Jon smiles. ‘God, I basically dragged you to bed.’

‘I think we both know I came willingly.’

They both laugh at the double entendre in his words and Jon pulls himself up to sit against the pillows and glance around the room.

‘God, why’d the Tyrells want to sell this place again? It’s so fancy.’

Sansa snorts. ‘Money is a powerful thing.’

‘Seems a shame to me. I think this is the nicest hotel room I’ve ever stayed in.’

‘Me too, to be honest,’ she admits. ‘Checkout’s at midday, though. It was on the wedding invite,’ she drawls, rolling her eyes. Jon barks out a short peal of laughter.

She wonders if he will want to escape back to his own hotel room before then, whether he’ll run into Robb in the corridor, and whether she’ll care if that happens. She decides she doesn’t. If Robb has a problem, he can keep it to himself. Arya too.

Jon turns towards her and leans down to kiss her, soft at first but then deeper and more urgent, the brush of his tongue against her own making her shiver.

‘Joffrey Baratheon himself is going to have to drag me out of this room at midday, then. Let him find two people in bed together for a change.’

Sansa grins up at him - his handsome, dark face and the soft creases around his smiling eyes, and decides, yes, she made a good decision last night, and maybe, just perhaps weddings aren’t so bad as she first thought. Or specifically, not this one.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Theawants on tumblr. Hit me up.


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